


The Warmth Of Your Doorway

by sysrae



Series: Healing Hands [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dean Smith Verse, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - It's a Terrible Life, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Masseuse Castiel, Tattooed Castiel, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4494603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean Smith, touch-starved and isolated, finds himself at the Angelic Massage parlour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warmth Of Your Doorway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoversAntiquities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/gifts).



'I'm sorry,' says Dean Smith, faintly. 'You'll have to repeat that. I don't think I heard you right.'

'We're brothers,' says Sam Wesson, the enthusiasm with which he'd made the first, identical pronouncement now replaced by a touch of uncertainty. 'You... you do know you're adopted, right? I mean, I figured you were four when it happened, you must remember something, but maybe –'

'No,' says Dean, cutting him off, his anxiety ratcheting up with every second, 'I mean, I know I'm – I know I was, uh –' _say it, you can say the damn word!_ '– adopted, I just didn't –' he sucks in breath and stares at Sam, suddenly hating him, hating his own vulnerability and every single aspect of this conversation, '– nobody said I had a living brother.' _Living_ being the operative word.

Sam's eyes widen. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Swallows. There's hurt in his expression, and Dean hates that, too. 'You don't remember me?'

Dean grips his kneecaps under his desk. 'No,' he says, stiffly, which is only half a lie. And then, because Sam looks physically wounded by this revelation, he adds, reluctantly, 'I repressed it. Everything about – about what happened before I was, before – I repressed it.'

'Oh!' says Sam, like this explains everything. 'God, I'm so sorry, I should've thought this through, I just – I was trying to lead up to it, you know, get to know you first, but I've been looking for you for years – it's why I came to Sandover in the first place, which, I know that sounds kinda creepy, like I was stalking you or something, but ever since I found out about you, I wanted to track you down, and now –'

'And you didn't think,' says Dean, barely able to grit out the words, he feels so sickly ashamed, 'that your, uh, _friendly approach_ was open to misinterpretation on my end?'

Sam falters, looking genuinely puzzled for the first time since entering Dean's office. They've been spending most lunch breaks together for the past few weeks, ever since Sam approached him by the coffee machine and made a crack about how the Sandover cafeteria took him right back to elementary school, and Dean had laughed and Sam had smiled, all broad shoulders and flashing hazel eyes, and Dean had let himself hope that maybe, maybe –

The penny drops for Sam, and to his credit – his only credit, right now – he looks more horrified at himself than Dean. 'Oh,' he whispers, appalled, 'oh, fuck, I didn't – Jesus, I didn't even consider – you're _gay_?'

'Bisexual,' says Dean, fighting the urge to shut his eyes. Dear god, this is excruciating.

Sam doesn't quite scramble out of his seat, but he looks like he really wants to. Instead, he tries for awkward humour. 'I, uh. I'm flattered, I guess? I mean, I'm straight, not that it matters, but – '

'Please get out,' says Dean. The words slip free of their own accord, so disconnected from any conscious process that it takes him a full three seconds to realise he really just said it. He doesn't think he's ever thrown anyone out of his office before: he's always believed in an open door policy – he suppresses a sudden, magic urge to laugh at the thought – and even though he routinely daydreams about throttling Garth or banishing Becky, he's never gone through with it.

But here and now, he's reached his breaking point.

Sam pales, stumbling to his feet. 'Dean, I'm so, so sorry – please, I'll give you whatever space you need, but I really – I really want to talk to you, I –'

'I don't give a _damn_ what you want!' Dean growls, his vehemence shocking both of them. He surges to his feet, fists balled by his sides. 'I thought you were freaking _dead_ , okay? You wanna talk repression? I was four years old, and I saw my mom get burned alive, and my dad went totally off the rails, and one day he just dumps me at a stranger's house and heads out with my baby brother, and I didn't know where the hell they'd gone or what it meant, but I never saw either of them again, and nobody would tell me why, but then I got out of bed one night and overheard the adults say that dad thought Sammy –' the old name feels like a scar ripped open, a punch to the heart, and he falters, gulps '– that he had a demon in him, that he'd caused the fire, and I thought that meant he was dead, that my dad had killed him, and I was terrified, fucking _terrified_ it meant I was evil, too, so when my – when Bobby and Ellen took me in, I didn't say anything, I just told myself I was their son, their son, over and over and over, until I forgot I'd ever been someone else. And it's not like they ever brought it up, because they had my sister ten months after I got there, and they weren't ever gonna tell her I was anything less than a brother, or make me feel like they loved her more, and I forgot –'

He's ranting now, the strain of having kept it all to himself for nigh on eighteen months finally proving too great in the face of Sam's provocation; Sam, who's staring at him now in something like abject horror. Which ought to be Dean's cue to shut up, except that his brain-to-mouth filter has finally, irrevocably broken, and what comes out instead is the truth.

'– I forgot,' he says, his fingernails digging sharp crescents into his palms, 'until I had to get a passport last year, and needed my birth certificate, and my parents' names weren't on it. Okay? Do you even know how that felt for me? For _them_? Because I'm the screw-up, I'm the one who forgot who he was, but they're the ones who have to feel like they failed me because of something _I did_. And ever since then, I haven't been home, I've barely – god, I can barely even talk to them on the phone, even my little sister – I spent six months in therapy trying to dredge it all up, get my memories back – I got passed over for promotion once the gossip went round that I'd cracked up, I'm like a social leper around here – I'm shocked that none of your yellowshirt buddies filled you in on that, by the way – and then you come along, and you're the first damn person who's actually treated me like a person in _months_ , and I thought – Jesus, I thought – and then you just – you're my goddamn _brother_ , and you're not even dead, I fucked myself up for _nothing_ , and you think, you really think I give a shit what you _want_ right now? Really?'

If Sam was pale before, he's ashen now, and a petty, vicious part of Dean thinks, _good_.

'I guess not,' Sam says, voice broken. He looks like he's on the brink of tears. 'I'm sorry, Dean. God, I'm so, so sorry.' And with that, he stumbles over to the door and lets himself out, the latch clicking shut behind him.

 

*

 

Dean works until 9PM every night for the next two weeks. He barely eats, and any other time he'd be thrilled at dropping a few pounds without cleansing or extra exercise, but here and now, he feels too numb to notice. He knows that Sam is still at Sandover – he's taken to checking the daily staff email bulletins for employee turnover news instead of just deleting them, and so far as he can tell, the guy – his _brother_ – is still on payroll – but they don't have lunch any more, and the two times he catches sight of Sam in the halls, he turns on his heel and heads the other way.

It's pushing eight thirty on Friday night when someone raps on his door, and Dean tenses up, fearful that Sam's decided to corner him at last. But when he looks up, it's only his line manager, Zachariah, and for the first time since he started working for the man, Dean feels a rush of gratitude at his presence.

'You're working late again, Smith,' says Zachariah. 'The Dreyfus account?'

'No, sir,' says Dean. 'I finished that two hours ago. This is for Lehman & Lehman.'

Zachariah's eyebrows shoot up into where his hairline would be, if not for male pattern baldness. 'Impressive,' he says, and Dean sits bolt upright at that, because Zachariah is allergic to praise without an ulterior motive. 'Your dedication is commendable, Dean. Which is why I think you deserve a break.'

Dean freezes. 'Sir?'

'Take next week off,' says Zachariah. 'God knows, you're chewing through work faster than we can find it – at this rate, you'll be gunning for my job!' He laughs a false, bright laugh. 'I've already spoken to HR; you haven't used any vacation days the past two quarters, and it seems a shame to lose them.'

Dean swallows, frightened without being able to articulate why. 'Sir, if I've done something wrong –'

Zachariah sighs. 'Dean, Dean. You're a model employee; it does you credit! But you need to take it easy, or you're going to burn yourself out.' He looks at him side-on, the fingers of one hand absently tugging a cufflink. 'Look, your people are worried about you.'

'My people?'

'Your department,' says Zachariah, with just a touch of sharpness. 'They've seen you working long hours for no apparent reason, and to be frank, it's spooking them. Some employees are worried that it means we're in trouble, while others – others are, I suspect, more personally invested in your wellbeing, given your little upset last year.'

Fury burns through Dean at that, but it's impotent anger, cooling even as it flares. There's no arguing with Zachariah, and even if he wanted to, he doesn't have the strength. He feels like he's aged a thousand years since his conversation with Sam, and deep down, underneath all his pride and determination, he knows he needs a break. 'The whole week, sir?'

'The whole week,' Zachariah echoes. 'Consider it my little gift to you.' He turns to go, then hesitates with his hand on the doorframe, giving Dean a final once-over, nose wrinkling at the sight. 'Christ, Smith, you look like hell. Go get a massage or something. You're wound so tight, it's making me tense by proxy.'

And with that, he lets himself out.

 

*

 

Dean stands on the pavement in front of the Sandover building, staring bleakly out at the night. He's been catching the bus to save on petrol, a painful economy he only ever foists on himself in times of great emotional distress, partly because he doesn't trust himself to drive, but mostly because it makes the day longer, gives him a way to extend the time before he winds up back at his empty apartment, trapped alone with his thoughts.

He shoulders his satchel, buttons his coat against the wind, and starts the trudge to the bus stop.

He's two blocks away when he sees the sign, all pale blue neon and curving lines: _Angelic Massage_ , the place is called, and even though it's close to nine, the lights are still on in the building. Dean stops dead and stares at it, heart thumping for no good reason. Get a massage, Zachariah had said, and it's not like Dean has anything better to do with his evening; hell, he doesn't even have any decent wine in the house. He crosses to the massage parlour, one hand gripping the strap of his bag, and is almost at the threshold when the glass door swings open, revealing a startled, dark-haired man with eyes an even more electric blue than the neon sign.

They stare at each other, trapped in a moment of mutual awkwardness. The dark-haired man is unkempt, unshaven, yet somehow all the more appealing for it: stubbled jaw, messy hair, multiply pierced ears, a couple of beaded necklaces with matching bracelets on either wrist plus a few made from coloured string. In stark contrast to Dean's woollen suit, tie and pinstriped shirt, he's wearing a loose hemp shirt with a mandarin collar in stonewashed blue-grey – unbuttoned, of course, the sleeves rolled to the elbows – matching pants in an ashy cream, and a pair of boat shoes, with no less than three different tattoos half-visible at throat and wrist and forearm. He blinks at Dean, head tilting slightly, and asks, in a pleasantly scratchy voice, 'You're after a massage?'

'Yes?' says Dean, hating that it comes out a question. He realises the man must be on his way home for the day, and adds quickly, 'But if it's too late, I can always come back tomorrow –'

'Not at all,' says the man, smiling. 'Clearly, your need is immediate.'

It ought to feel like either a negative judgement or an innuendo, but there's something about the way he says it, a sort of intrinsic empathy, that strips away Dean's defences. 'Yeah,' he says, voice shaking a little. 'Yeah, I guess it is.'

'I'm Castiel,' says the masseuse. 'Come on in. Let's see what I can do for you.'

'Thanks,' says Dean, and follows him inside, where everything is warm and golden. 'I'm Dean.'

'Dean,' says Castiel, lips twitching in an almost-smile. 'You caught me just in time. I was about to turn the lights off, and there you were.'

'I really don't mean to intrude –'

'Not at all,' says Castiel, sliding in behind a wooden countertop. The whole place is decked out with crystals and candles (though these are unlit) and books on meditation. There are comfy-looking armchairs in the waiting area, a wicker table covered with magazines, and several potted plants, the earthy scent of soil dispelling Dean's assumption of their fakeness. 'Now, what sort of treatment were you after?'

'Uh,' says Dean, 'I just – I mean, I've never – I don't really know what the options are –'

'That's all right,' says Castiel, and smiles again, broad and happy. He's got a gorgeous face, and maybe it's just that Dean's so frazzled anyway, but something about the man relaxes him. 'How about this: we'll try for a thirty-minute session, and you can tell me what areas you want me to focus on depending on how it feels. Does that sound all right?'

'Yeah,' says Dean, lips trembling with pathetic gratitude at having the decision made for him. 'That sounds amazing.'

With practised, gentle efficiency, Castiel – who says to call him Cas if he likes – ushers Dean into one of the massage rooms, explaining about the cubbyhole for his clothes, that he can either keep his briefs on or take them off, whatever he's most comfortable with. He explains how best to lie on the massage table, asks if Dean has any incense preferences (Dean doesn't; Cas chooses sandalwood, lighting a stick without breaking stride), apologises that he doesn't have any tea to offer him, as the kettle is already packed away – apparently, he makes tea for his all customers, a special blend of his own – and then, when Dean finally relinquishes his satchel to the cubbyhole, vanishes back out front 'to put up the closed sign and lock the door, so we're not interrupted.'

As Dean slowly shucks his clothes behind a Chinese screen, it occurs to him that this statement, too, should potentially alarm him, but as with the line about his needs, there's something about the way Cas speaks that works to reassure him. The masseuse is lively and kind-spoken, and by the time he's stripped down to his plain cotton briefs, Dean already feels better than he has in days.

Cas returns and grins at him, an endearing expression that shows his gums. 'Ready to hop on the table?' he asks, and Dean complies with a nod, extending himself belly-down, his face pressed into the open, circular gap in the cushioning.

There's a soft, metallic click, and quiet music starts up, a gentle burble that's half nature sounds, half instrumental.

'I'm just warming up the massage oil,' says Cas, moving alongside Dean's head. 'Now, without wanting to make assumptions, am I right in thinking you work in an office? Spend a lot of time at your desk?'

'Yeah,' says Dean, fighting the urge to turn his head and look at what Cas is doing. 'I work at Sandover.'

'Mmm,' says Cas. 'So, your shoulders and back are the likely problem areas. I'll start there and work my way out, all right?'

'Okay,' says Dean, and then –

And then Cas touches him.

The oil is slick and subtly scented, warm against his skin. Cas's fingers are strong and sure, smoothing across the planes of his back in exploratory sweeps, probing for knots, for tension.

'Do you have any injuries I should be aware of?' Castiel asks. 'Even old ones can matter, if they were serious.'

Dean struggles to answer; his heart is beating so fast, he can barely focus. 'Right shoulder,' he says, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. 'I dislocated it back in college.'

'Good to know. That's it?'

'That's it.'

'All right,' says Castiel, and keeps on with mapping Dean's back.

He's scrupulously professional; or at least, there's nothing in the touch that feels inappropriate. Given that this is the first massage Dean's ever had, he doesn't exactly have a yardstick to go by. But as gentle as Cas is being – and despite the fact that his fingers never stray lower than the dimples of his lower back, or higher than the nape of his neck and the rounds of his shoulders – Dean's breathing quickens, aching in his throat. His pulse is still going crazy, and sure, Castiel is an attractive man, but this isn't that, it's not sexual at all, and Dean doesn't know what the hell is wrong, but something clearly is, because his body's not reacting the way it should; is interpreting the simple contact all out of proportion to what it is, and he doesn't know _why_ –

And then it hits him, solid as a suckerpunch. It's not how Cas is touching him; it's that Dean's being touched at all.

He hasn't seen his family in over eighteen months: Jo's studying overseas, his parents are on the other side of the country, and at the time, he was too wound up over the birth certificate disaster to go home for Christmas or Thanksgiving. He didn't celebrate his birthday this year because his best friend, Charlie, is backpacking across Japan with her girlfriend, and without her to nag him into it and Jo too far away to take up the slack, he just didn't see the point. He used to have other friends at Sandover, but they've drifted apart since he started going to therapy, and he hasn't found the time to get laid in, god, it's got to be nearly two years now, which is just embarrassing – and then there was Sam, but Dean was gunshy, wary of hugging or being hugged for reasons he couldn't name at the time, but which are now all too obvious.

Namely: that he's embarrassingly touch-starved, having experienced no greater human contact than a handshake, a fleeting slap on the back or a crowded jostle for twenty goddamn months, and now he's getting a massage, and his system's going haywire.

Dean makes an animal noise and screws his eyes shut, hoping desperately that Castiel didn't hear him. God, he's so fucking pathetic, even _Zachariah's_ started pitying him – on top of everything else, the last thing he needs is some kind, gorgeous stranger thinking he's a freak – but then Cas lifts his hands and doesn't put them back, and Dean's heart sinks at the loss.

'Dean?' Cas asks, a thread of worry in his voice. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes,' he says – or tries to, anyway. It comes out a sob, and it's only then that he realises he's crying, tears streaming down his cheeks.

'You're not,' says Cas, with that same non-judgemental concern. 'Hey. Can you sit up for me? Up you get, come on.'

Slowly, Dean drags himself upright, until he's sitting sideways on the massage table, arms wrapped round his stomach as his toe-tips brush the floor. 'God, I'm sorry,' he says, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, 'I'm, I should go, I shouldn't –'

'Come with me,' says Cas, and before Dean can quite process this development, Castiel twines their fingers together and tugs Dean gently to his feet, leading him out of the massage room and into a different one, where, in short order, Cas guides him into a fluffy white bathrobe and sits him down on a plush green sofa before perching next to him, his oil-damp hand placed lightly atop Dean's own. 'Is this all right?' he asks.

Dean nods, and Castiel gives his fingers an encouraging squeeze. 'All right. That's good. Now, I'm currently touching you – is that okay? Do you need me to let go, or back up?'

'No,' Dean croaks, face wet with tears. He looks at Castiel, at the worried compassion in his big blue eyes, and it's like a dam breaking. The whole wretched story comes tumbling out in a torrent of words: his enforced holiday, the mess with Sam, his isolation at work, the fact that nobody's touched him in the length of a Bible. Castiel listens silently, with an intensity of focus that would do a cat proud; he never lets go of Dean's hand, but from time to time, he drags his thumb gently across his knuckles, swirling patterns in the scented oil, until Dean finally falls silent.

'That's a lot to be dealing with,' says Castiel, and Dean laughs, short and broken, at the level of understatement.

'I'm a freak,' he says, miserably. 'Can't even get a damn massage –'

'You're not a freak,' says Cas. He squeezes Dean's hand again, and this time, when he meets Dean's gaze, there's something oddly shy in his expression. 'This may be an... unprofessional suggestion, but I think, under the circumstances – would you like to get a drink with me?'

Dean gapes at him, brain utterly stalled. 'A drink?'

Cas quirks a wry smile. 'I understand it's a custom among humans.' More uncertainly, he adds, 'I'll understand if you'd rather talk to a friend, but... I would quite like to talk to you, Dean, and as much as you need a massage, I think you might find it... easier, I suppose, if you knew me a little first. If we could warm up to it. And, well –' he laughs again, the sound warm and infections, '– to tell the truth, I've been craving a beer all evening. I haven't even had dinner yet, and there's a bar nearby that does truly excellent burgers.'

At the mention of burgers, Dean's stomach rumbles. 'God, I haven't had a burger in _forever_ ,' he says, mouth watering at the prospect. Cas's eyes crinkle at the edges, and assuming Dean had any resolve against the idea to begin with, it utterly crumples now. His whole life is steadily falling apart; except for Cas's offer, he's got nowhere to be and no one to be there with, and all at once, he feels reckless enough to be spontaneous.

'That sounds awesome, Cas,' he says, and tries for a smile, his free hand gesturing at his robe. 'But, uh – you think they'll let me in like this?'

Cas laughs again. 'Perhaps not,' he concedes. 'You might have to put your suit back on.'

Dean grins at him. 'I think I can live with that.'

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the lyrics of Hozier's It Will Come Back.


End file.
